Page 86 of The Burning

“I heard you’re a forward woman,” she mutters as she closes the door. “I don’t think you can just force your way in here like that.”

I stop before reaching the kitchen and turn to her. “I didn’t realize you have company,” I say. “I didn’t see a buggy outside.”

I have a pretty good idea who she’s sharing a cup of coffee with this morning. Judging from her expression, she knows it. Glaring at me, she grasps the open front sides of the cardigan she’s wearing and yanks them together, folds her arms over her bosom. “I heard you’re a rude one, too. Guess I can vouch for that.”

“My manners aside,” I say slowly, watching her, “how is it that you knew something bad was going to happen to Milan before he was killed?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she huffs.

“Did you know someone was going to kill him?”

“I knew no such thing.”

“Do not lie to me,” I say. “I have a witness.”

She has the audacity to assume an offended countenance. “I have never lied to you. Not once!”

“You lied by omission,” I return evenly. “Same thing. Frankly, I’m starting to wonder what else you’re hiding.”

“I’ve nothing to hide.”

I glance toward the kitchen doorway, which is behind me. “Who’s in the kitchen?”

“No one. The kids are at school.”

Giving her a tight smile, I turn away and start toward the kitchen. An instant before I pass through the doorway, I hear the shuffle of feet, but when I enter, the room is empty.

Bertha follows me, looking uncertain and increasingly angry. “I heard they fired you down to the police station. I suspect you deserved it. You can’t just barge in here like this. Maybe I’ll run down to the pay phone and call the sheriff.”

I take in the two cups on the table. Still steaming. Barely touched. I turn to Bertha. “Cozy.”

She hits me with a withering look. “I don’t like you much, Kate Burkholder.”

“How did you know something bad was going to happen to Milan?” I ask.

“I want you to leave,” she snaps. “Right now. Get out of here. Go on.”

I’m keenly aware that there is a line I cannot cross and that I’m very close to crossing it. Every citizen has God-given rights that may not be infringed. That’s especially true since I’m here without a warrant—not to mention without the backing of my peers. That said, I’m not above using any tool I have in my arsenal to impel her to talk to me.

“All right, Bertha. I’ll leave.” I say the words quietly, maintaining a serene expression as I hold her gaze, keep her engaged. “But you should know that if you had prior knowledge that your ex-husband was going to be harmed, that makes you an accessory to murder. If that’s the case, you can bet the farm someone will be back with a warrant.”

Without warning, the Amish woman charges. A sound that’s part whimper, part sob pours from her throat. The next thing I know her hands slam into my chest and I’m reeling backward. I stumble over my own feet and nearly go down. But my butt hits the counter, stopping my backward momentum, and I quickly regain my balance.

“Stop it!” I shout. “Bertha! I’m a police officer!”

But she’s reached the limit of her emotional tolerance. I see her lips pull back, her teeth clench, and she charges again. I’m ready this time and grasp her arms at the biceps, swing her around fast, and lower her to the floor. She’s heavy, but not in very good physical condition, which makes her easier to handle.

I kneel, roll her onto her stomach, set my knee on her back. “You need to calm down.”

A scream that’s part rage, part panic rends the air. “Don’t tell me to calm down!”

Out of the corner of my eye I see someone emerge from the mudroom. My hand flies to my sidearm. I look up, see Lester Yoder come through the door. I nearly pull my .38, but one look at his face and I know he’s not a threat.

“Bertha!” he cries. “Was der schinner is kshicht?” What in the world is happening?

I point at him. “Do not move!”

The Amish man stops, raises his hands as if I’m holding him at gunpoint.